


an imperfect sun

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: SASO 2017 [3]
Category: DAYS (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Challenge: Sports Anime Shipping Olympics | SASO 2017, Gen, M/M, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: In which all Tsukushi wants is to know this customer's name, but he gives a different one every time and now he's scrawlingBruce Leeonto a coffee cup.





	an imperfect sun

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SASO 2017 Bonus Round 1: AUs | [originally posted here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10884114#cmt10884114)

It's that honey-sweet voice amid the clink of loose change that makes Tsukushi look up, look again—  
  
"Oh! It's, um... Pamela Anderson-san, right?"  
  
Pamela Anderson shakes his head, and grins. He reaches into his jacket, lightning-quick; one second, the coins in his hand glint and vanish like a magic trick, the next, he’s whipped out a pair of nunchucks.  
  
Of course he has a pair of nunchucks. Tsukushi doesn’t even question it.  
  
He fidgets, shuffles awkwardly from one foot to another. Nunchucks _are_ really cool, but they _do_ happen to be surrounded by breakable cups and saucers and rather expensive espresso machines, and he _knows_ that he is clumsy enough that floor manager Ubukata would believe he’d broken everything himself, and so Tsukushi just about manages to squeak out a frantic protest as Pamela Anderson starts spinning them, and his entire short-lived employment flashes before his eyes.  
  
“I, uh, I don’t think you should—!”  
  
“It’s fine,” says Pamela Anderson. "I'm Bruce Lee today. See?”  
  
He twirls the nunchucks in one hand, then another, then behind his back and over his head with a dramatic flourish.  
  
Tsukushi doesn’t realise his mouth’s hanging open till he hears Sayuri clapping behind him.  
  
“That’s amazing!” she cheers, as Pam—no, _Bruce Lee_ —deftly executes one final spin, gives her a little bow, and turns to Tsukushi, who swallows and manages to stop gaping long enough to grab the nearest paper cup. He picks up a marker and scrawls _Bruce Lee_ on it in wobbly characters. Even on a good day, he can’t write in a straight line to save his life.  
  
He draws a smiling little sun on the cup next to Bruce Lee’s name, in a desperate attempt to make up for his barely legible handwriting.  
  
“W-would you like your usual?"  
  
"Yes, please.” Bruce Lee pockets his nunchucks. “Are you making my coffee today, Tsukamoto-kun?”  
  
“How do you know my name?” Tsukushi yelps.  
  
Bruce Lee leans over the counter to point at Tsukushi’s uniform. “It’s on your name tag.”  
  
“Oh! Yeah! It is! Uh, but I don’t think I can make your coffee today, I’m on cashier duty—”  
  
Sayuri nudges him. “Go on. It’ll only take you a few minutes! I’ll cover you here.”  
  
“—and I’m not even very good at making coffee,” Tsukushi mumbles, helpless, as Sayuri shepherds him towards the machines and tells Bruce Lee to _please excuse him, he’s going to make your order right away._  
  
Bruce Lee tucks his hair behind one ear and leans over the counter to watch Tsukushi.  
  
He doesn’t say anything for a while. Only listens, patient, as Tsukushi mutters to himself under his breath and tries to concentrate. _Two shots of chocolate syrup. One espresso shot. Less froth. Or was it extra froth? No, less froth._  
  
“Why do you make coffee if you’re not very good at it?” asks Bruce Lee.  
  
Tsukushi looks up.  
  
There’s a clattering sound by his feet just then, and he realises to his mortification that he’s dropped a teaspoon. As he bends down hurriedly to retrieve it, straightens, he’s steeling himself for judgment, but there is only a sparkling curiosity in Bruce Lee’s steady gaze.  
  
Tsukushi’s grip tightens round the teaspoon. He sets it aside, and takes a deep breath. It comes easier than he thinks it will, somehow. So do the words, tripping over themselves one after another.  
  
“I’m not very good at a lot of things. I didn’t even drink coffee before I started working here…”  
  
He’s rambling, he knows, and Bruce Lee is probably bored to death, but it wouldn’t be the first time Tsukushi put his foot in his mouth around him anyway and he’s still coming back and asking Tsukushi to make his coffee, and maybe it’s _okay_ to babble on like this if it’s him.  
  
(Tsukushi is just stubborn enough to hope—if there is one thing he _is_ good at, it is this—)  
  
“But Mizuki-san was good enough to let me try, and Kimishita-san yells at me a lot, but he hasn’t fired me yet, and I’m doing my best. I want to become someone they can rely on.”  
  
He feels his cheeks flush pink, pinker than usual.  
  
It is a warm day. From the window above, little sunspots light their way across the floor of the cafe, dancing in and out of sight behind the potted plants and that one sculpture of a fishing cat by the door that always looks like he's sharing a secret wink.  
  
Tsukushi shakes extra chocolate flakes on top of the coffee, puts on the plastic lid and slides it towards Bruce Lee. He likes his coffee rich and sweet.  
  
“Here you go, Bruce Lee-san. Um, thank you for listening to me.”  
  
“Thank you for making my coffee. You always get it just right,” says Bruce Lee. He smiles, sunny and kind, and it is the smile of someone who has known Tsukushi for a long time, and better than he’s realised.  
  
“It’s Kazama, by the way, Tsukamoto-kun. Kazama Jin.”  
  
Tsukushi nearly drops another spoon.  
  
_Kazama-kun,_ he tries to say, but finds his voice has deserted him; _Kazama-kun,_ he mouths, quiet, and he thinks that maybe Kazama can hear it after all when he calls his name for the first time, for he turns back, coffee in hand, and the light in the doorway brightens.


End file.
